Lamplight in the Shadows (21 page)

‘It is just that I now feel guilty for asking her such leading questions. If I hadn't—'

‘Jules.'

He placed his right index finger on the tip of his brother's nose, emulating Jules' own mannerism.

‘As I said, it is my problem, not yours. Now, goodnight – unlike you, I have a long drive back tomorrow. See you in the morning.'

‘If I surface in time.' Jules studied the almost empty wineglass of port. ‘Goodnight, James. Thanks for being understanding.'

Jules watched as his brother climbed the stairs, turning at the top in the direction of the room where Janice was no doubt already asleep. Then, standing up long enough to reach for the decanter, he poured himself another large glass and sat down to study the last embers of the fire.

‘Goodnight, James,' he repeated, only this time to an empty room. ‘Perhaps you're right – maybe I should stay out of it.' He swallowed a mouthful of port, before continuing. ‘After all, what do I know about marriage – or women for that matter?'

He put his head back and closed his eyes.

‘Sometimes, my way of life seems a lot less confusing.'

Mentioned in the Domesday Book of 1086, the Parish Church of St Lawrence in Helliton was struggling to see in the next millennium.

At least that was the collective view of the members of the local diocese.

It was acknowledged that God, of course, in His infinite wisdom, might have other ideas, which He was yet to share with the elected trustees of His real estate here on earth. However, for the churchwardens, the process of overseeing the renovation of a stone building, which had been on the receiving end of over nine hundred years of use and abuse, was a persistent and very real headache.

One of the problems was the size of the parish. Essentially consisting of two very rural villages approximately six miles from Bishopsworth, the population had been in decline since 1960 and now stood at no more than 279. Most of the current electorate could not be relied upon for regular contributions to the parish coffers and, of those who did make a habitual donation, many had been retired for more than a decade, their finances decaying along with their physical health. A few months previously, one of the wardens had written a piece for the parish magazine, entitled ‘A Plea for the Voluntary Return to the Concept of Tithes'. It had brought about little in the way of response, either in financial or literary terms, apart from one elderly lady who was overheard in the village corner shop remarking that ‘the vicar is now collecting old ties for some reason'. She was not entirely sure what for, but she would ‘have a rummage and see whether I've still got some of my late Walter's to give to him'.

Her remark was not only erroneous in respect to the nature of the appeal, but also deluded in her endearing belief that they were still blessed at St Lawrence's with the provision of a vicar. Such ecumenical enrichments had long since ceased to exist and the dwindling congregation now relied on a Priest-in-Charge, shared with three other parishes.

The Reverend Jeremy Pinchbeck MA (Oxon) currently had the unenviable task of quartering himself each Sunday for the good of the faith. He greeted James as he arrived at the church door.

‘Good evening, Doctor Armstrong. Most kind of you to come. I'm sure we are going to be in for a rare treat.'

‘My pleasure, entirely, Mr Pinchbeck. I am always interested in supporting the local parishes. After all, many of the parishioners are also my patients. Besides, such a musical event is surely a unique happening locally?'

‘Indeed, Dr Armstrong, it is, one to be welcomed and supported. Without it and other forms of fundraising, we would have great difficulty covering the costs of preventing that architectural delight from collapsing.'

He indicated the embattled western tower, complete with its eight pinnacles and housing five bells, the latter features in themselves being of noteworthiness for such a small church. As he spoke, a keen wind whistled round the stone buttresses of the tower, flicking at the edges of his black cassock.

‘Not helped, of course, by the fact that it serves as home to a colony of pipistrelle bats,' continued the priest. ‘According to the nature conservationists, they are rarer than the dwindling membership of the Church of England, although I understand that they are also up at Helliton Abbey. Seems a bit selfish keeping two colonies in the same area. I suggested that we could relocate ours to some other community where they do not have any. You know – give someone else the pleasure of nature's darlings. However, the heritage officials became most disconcerted at the very suggestion!'

James laughed.

‘Well, let us hope that they stay put for tonight's concert. I would prefer not to have to deal with phobia-induced histrionics in the middle of an aria!'

He turned and made his way into the church. Behind him, the Reverend Pinchbeck greeted the next concert-goer-cum-financial-patron.

‘Good evening, Mrs Bloomhurst. Most kind of you to come. I'm sure we are going to be in for a rare treat.'

James smiled to himself as he detected the same degree of enthusiasm in the priest's voice as had been summoned for his own arrival. The Reverend Pinchbeck certainly knew how to play up to his audience.

Just within the southwestern corner of the chancel, James paused to examine the font. Evidently old, it was unusual in so much as it was square in plan and embellished with the most ornate carvings.

‘Early Norman, or at least that is what the archaeologist lads tell us. Mind you, it also says that in
Pevsner
, so they could be right!'

James looked round in response to the roughened bass tones of the person addressing him, grinned and extended his right hand. It was shaken by one almost twice the size and with incredibly rough skin.

‘Good to see you, Mark. All set for tonight?'

‘As set as this bunch of buskers will ever be. However, as the choir of King's College are reportedly otherwise engaged tonight, then I have to make do with whomsoever I can lay hands on. Half of them seem incapable of reading music, but I guess they'll hum along in the right places.'

Mark Allerton was a robust giant of a man, some twenty years James' senior. A well-known farmer with an incorrigible sense of humour, he had become a good friend to James from his earliest days within the practice. Indeed, for a while, James had assumed that Mark's only other interests apart from farming were fine wines and home-brewed beverages. A not unreasonable perception, albeit erroneous, as his first consultation was conducted whilst sitting on cases of Gordon's gin in the cellar of Mark's home. He had left somewhat more than invigorated by a large glass of excellently made sloe gin. It had come as a surprise to James to learn of Mark's musical interests.

‘Looks like you've filled the church to capacity.' James looked round at the rapidly filling pews.

‘All three hundred tickets sold. That's better than the attendance in one year's worth of Sundays. I told old Pinchbeck over there that he ought to sneak Holy Communion in during the interval for good measure. You know, capture a few recalcitrant souls whilst they are least expecting it.'

‘Do you know, Mark, to hear you speak, no one would believe that you harbour a hidden passion for Church music.'

‘It's just the music, nothing else. I cannot be doing with all this mumbo-jumbo they mutter in between the sung bits. Does nothing for me at all.'

‘Perhaps the whole service ought to be set to music and then you'd take notice.'

‘Maybe so. I tell you what, though. If you get yourself a dog collar like you are planning, we will vote for you to hang your frock here at St Lawrence's. Then I will listen to you and let you know whether you have managed to move my soul. In the meantime, I can guarantee that I'm going to move yours tonight.'

James could not help laughing at the irreverent words of his friend.

‘You've got yourself a bargain. I will consider you my first challenge. Now, I'd better find myself a seat before I'm left standing at the back.'

‘Left-hand side, front row, end of pew. I've reserved it for you.'

‘That's most kind, thank you.'

‘Not at all. Thought it would be easier for you to get up at the end and say a few words of thanks, like.' He waved a hand at James and turned to go.

‘Mark!' James called him back. ‘What do you mean? Nobody told me about that!'

‘Oh, didn't they?' The innocent expression on Mark's face did nothing to hide the truth.

‘No,
you
didn't!'

‘Never mind, I'm sure you're up to it. Good practice for when you have a full church on Sundays. See you in the interval.'

He slapped James on the shoulder and once again turned away. For a large man, he was surprisingly agile and slipped through the incoming audience with a deftness that prevented any further protest from James. He watched him go.

‘Impossible man!' James muttered with a look of bemusement.

Edging his way past a group of farmers who stood chatting at the top of the aisle, he walked down to the front pew on the left, as instructed. On the way, he recognised many of the faces within the rows of those already seated. His progress hence became punctuated by brief nods, smiles and a few handshakes.

‘Mrs Roseberry.'

‘Doctor.'

‘Evening, Mr Donaldson.'

‘Good evening, Dr Armstrong.'

‘Hello, Doctor Armstrong. You're my doctor!'

James bent down and ruffled the already tousled fair hair of the five-year-old boy who stood before him.

‘Hello, Thomas. Have you come to sing?'

‘Nope. My mummy says that I'm only allowed to sing in the bath until I learn the right notes.'

‘Is that so, Thomas? I'm sure you're much better than that!'

‘Nope, my mummy says not.'

‘Thomas, come here and sit down. I am sorry, Doctor. He is a little excited by it all. First time he's been in a church.'

‘He's no trouble at all, Mrs Stevenson. Perhaps, after tonight, he would like to come more often. I'm sure they would find him a place in the choir.'

‘Maybe so, Doctor. He does so enjoy singing.'

‘I suggest that you speak to Mark Allerton afterwards. He'll point you in the right direction.'

‘Thank you, Doctor. Have a good evening.'

‘You too, Mrs Stevenson.'

He moved down to the front of the aisle and bowed to the altar. The front pew had one seat available, adjacent to the aisle, just as Mark had promised. The brass plaque announcing that it was officially the seat of the church warden had been covered over with a piece of card, on which was written:

St Luke II

of

Bishopsworth

‘I couldn't begin to guess the name of the person responsible for that.'

James chuckled and extended his hand one more time.

‘Good evening, Sir Edward. I suspect your first guess would be correct! He's the only person I know with the nerve to get away with it.'

‘Well, I'm glad you're here, James. Mark told me that I was the understudy for the vote of thanks at the end – just in case his first choice did not show. I guess that's you?'

‘Yes, so I was informed five minutes ago. However, I am happy to stand aside for the High Sheriff.'

‘And get me into Mark's bad books? Not likely! I know my place. Changing the subject, no Mrs Armstrong?' Sir Edward indicated to James' right, as though highlighting an empty seat.

‘No, I am afraid she couldn't make it this evening.'

‘A shame. I am yet to meet her and I am sure she would have enjoyed the evening. You should not keep her hidden away so much. You must bring her to dinner at the Hall sometime soon. I will get Elizabeth to send her an invitation to one of her “At Homes”. Geraldine, how wonderful to see you. You look positively radiant.'

Sir Edward Winsonby-Folcroft Bt. rose to greet the widow of the late Andrew McPhearson CBE DL, a former racehorse owner and one-time chairman of the Wovington Racecourse. He had been awarded the CBE for ‘services to the racing industry', only he had taken a fatal fall whilst skiing off-piste during last year's season in Austria and so the medal was awarded posthumously. His widow, Geraldine, herself a lady of significant wealth having inherited an estate in the heart of Lincolnshire from her father, had been accompanied by Sir Edward to Buckingham Palace for the investiture. At the time, James had assumed, reading the details in the
Bishopsworth Standard
, that this had simply been a gesture of goodwill on behalf of Sir Edward. The fact that Mrs Andrew McPhearson was now being shown to her seat on the other side of Sir Edward left James wondering on the whereabouts of Lady Winsonby-Folcroft. The circumstantial evidence, James thought, suggested that the invitation to dinner at Helliton Hall would not be too quick in coming, a matter that would save him either the embarrassment of having to decline or arguably the greater humiliation of actually accepting and then having Janice misbehave at the function itself.

The distraction of Sir Edward allowed James to settle into his own seat. Looking about him, he took in the finer points of the church. Built in stone in the early English style, it consisted of a chancel, nave, aisle and south porch. A sturdy, but minimally carved, wooden screen separated the chancel from the nave. Both the pews and choir stalls were of oak and, from what he could perceive, of a substantial age. Immediately to his left was the organ: a three-manual pipe organ originally installed in 1875 by Liverpool-based firm Rushworth and Dreaper, according to a brass plate on the casement. Positioned at a slight angle adjacent to the organ, so that it was visible to most of the congregation, was the pulpit, again of oaken wood and with fine carvings set into its base. At the far east end of the chancel, within the sanctuary, was a communion table from the 17
^th
century.
Of a suitable antiquity for the rest of the church
, thought James.

The fixtures and fittings of the church, intrinsically fine though they were, had the benefit of extra adornment in the form of green swathes of holly and ivy, in deference to the festive occasion. There was no room for a tree, but James knew, from experience, that a small nativity scene would have been erected somewhere towards the west end of the nave. The incoming crowds had restricted his view earlier. However, he made a mental note to look at the end of the evening.

Tonight, the area between the nave and chancel was crammed with metal chairs and music stands for the orchestra, or rather, a scaled-down version of that ideally required to put on the
Christmas Oratorio
by Johann Sebastian Bach. As James studied the scene, various members of the orchestra were already taking their seats, adjusting the music on the stands, tuning their instruments and warming up by playing short scales, arpeggios or even snatches of the
Oratorio
's score. The result was a growing cacophony of discordant sound, suggesting to James the musical equivalent to the noise from a bustling market place. It all helped to create an atmosphere of pleasurable expectation.